


memento mori

by tanoposting



Series: trying whumptober 2k20 [1]
Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Moonshadow Elves (The Dragon Prince), Psychological Torture, Viren Is Stinky, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, coin jail, runaan goes to coin jail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26827282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanoposting/pseuds/tanoposting
Summary: "What a beautiful challenge you've given me." The brute says softly, squinting his hawkish eyes in thought. "I must come up with something you fear... more than death."Written for Whumptober 2020, and inspired by the prompt "Shackles". Big thank you to my beta readers Hazy and Freckles for all their help.
Relationships: Ethari/Runaan (The Dragon Prince)
Series: trying whumptober 2k20 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956838
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	memento mori

**Author's Note:**

> i had... a bit of a time with the wording on this but at last i believe it to be coherent. this is... extremely late but i have never been one for timeliness in my writing anyway. yeehaw.

Runaan is used to bindings, to that familiar tightness around his wrist signifying there is still a job to be done. He’s quite familiar with the tangible, almost painful pressure of them, the implied warning of what would happen should he fail in his mission. 

Runaan is not, however, used to shackles. Back home in the Silvergrove, there is no need for chains. A simple spell circle, performed by one of the community’s mages, is all that is needed to restrain a prisoner.

But his captors are humans. Awful, fallible, barbarian creatures. Near-animals who, instead of using their so-called magic to humanely restrain their captives, cuff their detainees with heavy metal and pull their arms upward, straining each muscle and joint so their position is as uncomfortable as it possibly can be.

For a moment, the elf assassin feels a twinge of sympathy for the humans kept in cells like his. His sympathy is quickly replaced by seething, cold rage, as the familiar clicking of boots on the dungeon’s chiselled stone floor reaches his pointed ears.

Viren. 

The elf had first learned the monster’s name through whispers, from the guards outside his cell and the annoyingly friendly prisoner that called himself Gren. While Runaan knows nothing of Katolian naming customs, “Viren” sounds like an omen. It rings grimly in his ears, sinking heavily into his chest. 

It feels like a thick, tar-like poison.

Poison, Runaan thinks, is a stellar way to describe the man standing in front of him. Everything about the obsequious bastard is poison, from his greasy hair to his toad-like eyes. 

He doesn't believe he's ever felt such a concentrated amount of hatred until today. It takes all his self-restraint not to spit on the reprobate right then and there. 

A split second before his last shard of patience crumbles, the elf's tired eyes dart to the scumbag's hands. One holds his pretentious cane as it usually does, but the other holds something new. A bronze plate. 

His barren stomach growls at the sight of food- not just any food, food from home. A Joganfruit, an orange and some bread adorn the plate's engraved surface, coupled with some kind of pitcher.

The words drilled into him during his training repeat in his mind over and over.

_I am already dead. I am already dead. I am already dead._

Even as the mantra re-brands itself into his skull, Runaan's hunger claws inside of him. His throat feels drier than the swirling black sands of the midnight desert.

As Viren sets the tray gently down on the ground with a soft thud, Runaan stares at the fruit and the pitcher with an intense longing. The snake sighs and purses his lips.

"If you don't eat, you'll die." He says, his voice fraught with an exasperated tone Runaan might have used when explaining something very simple to a much younger Rayla. 

Runaan wonders if the devil has children of his own, perhaps then he could find a shred of sympathy for his enemy. He hopes not. The last thing anyone needs is for the wretch to multiply. 

"I am already dead." The assassin nearly snarls. 

"You don't look dead." Viren hums matter-of-factly, his gaze drifting to his prisoner's swollen, purplish limb. "Though that hand has seen better days."

Had Runaan not been chained, he would have punched the man. Any of his fellow assassins would testify that their leader had a mean right hook.

But his fellow assassins are all dead, all because of his foolish mistakes. And he is here. Stuck in a frigid dungeon with a beast that dares to call itself a man as his keeper. 

The dark mage begins to speak again, something about rare Xadian fruits, but his words do not register. Runaan repeats it to himself, solidifying his will with each renewal.

_I am already dead. I am already dead. I am already dead._

The snake offers him a slice of orange. He curls his lip in disgust. The white-haired elf knows better than to eat something offered to him by a foe. Does Viren take him for a fool?

At his refusal, the vermin pops the orange into his gullet, peel and all.

"I understand the whole honour-in-not-eating thing, but at least drink something." Viren takes the pitcher, pouring from Runaan's best guess, a liquid that must be either juice or some kind of sweet alcohol. 

He extends a goblet to the elf, who turns his head away, sullenly refusing the drink. 

"Don't worry, it's just berry juice." Whatever reassuring facade Viren is trying to put on, Runaan doesn't buy it. 

The Katolian stands up, as his kind veneer gradually begins to slip from his features. 

"I have a proposition," Viren states, a hard edge emerging in his words as he continues. Runaan stares up at him without lifting his head, his expression unreadable. He does not wish to give the good-for-nothing the satisfaction of seeing him fully on his knees, arms forced backward, looking up at his captor with dread. 

_I am already dead. I am already dead. I am already dead._

"I simply want you to take a look at an object and tell me what it does. After that, I will unchain you and you can walk out of here."

His back and shoulders ache as if someone has beaten them with the butt of a whip, but still, the elf will not even consider fulfilling the bastard's request, no matter how easy or harmless it may seem.

"Decide. You can be free, or you can sit here and die." All traces of Viren's previous hospitality are gone, giving way to a harsh coldness that Runaan finds far more fitting for the man.

"I told you," The elf rasps, bruised chest heaving with the effort of each breath. "I am already dead."

To Runaan's surprise, his defiance has little effect, except for a roll of Viren's eyes and a derisive snort as he picks up the tray from the ground, turning his back to his captive.

"Yes, wait a second, I think I've heard about this. It's a Moonshadow elf thing, right?" Viren turns his head back to face Runaan, his tone becoming slightly more analytical as if he were a scholar reciting from a scroll. "A philosophy of accepting you are already dead, so you will not fear death." 

Runaan is silent. The man is correct, he'll give him that. Viren may be a human, but he is at least clever. 

A sinister, dark look crosses his jailer's face. Viren's lips twist themselves into an infernal smirk as his glittering eyes gaze past the stone of the dungeon and into some far-off distance. 

"What a beautiful challenge you've given me." The brute says softly, squinting his hawkish eyes in thought. "I must come up with something you fear... more than death." Viren peers down at Runaan like a scientist studying a very interesting insect, who, for his own sake, takes a sudden interest in the floor as his heart drops into his stomach. 

He will not give the coward the reward of his fear. Yet at the same time, the stoic assassin's thoughts cannot help but drift to Ethari.

Ethari, who must be sitting at home, waiting by the window for him. Ethari, who knew the risks, but had smiled through it all when he saw his husband off. Ethari, who had faithfully trusted Runaan to return his heart.  
Ethari, who had put so much care into crafting two specific metal lotuses. 

Ethari, whose heart will die alongside Runaan. 

He's not sure what Viren has planned for him. Torture, surely. Some kind of slow, excruciating death awaits him. 

This is what he has prepared for all his life. The assassin does not fear death, not at all. He has seen far too many lives end at his own hands to fear it. 

Were it not for his chains, he would run. Knock out the guards and flee into the forest like a coward. His honour is of course important, but he cannot bear the thought of Ethari's horrified, grief-stricken face when his husband watches the metal lotus he had crafted so carefully sink into the depths of the pool back into the Silvergrove. 

He tugs at them once, twice, three times, hoping in vain for the shackles to be wrenched from their holding place in the wall. 

The elf tries once again, over and over until he hunches over, panting from the exertion to his starved, parched husk of a body. 

He is already dead, he reminds himself. He is already dead and there is no use in trying to escape that unchangeable fact.

The Moonshadow elf's breath catches in his throat as thoughts of Viren's potential machinations flood his mind. 

Anyone with an ounce of knowledge about the Moonshadow class of elves knows they are selfless beings, fiercely loyal to their allies and the ones they love. 

Runaan's team is all dead, cut down at the hands of human guardsmen. All save for one. 

Rayla had fled the castle with the two human princes. Or, at least, he assumed Rayla had fled the castle. If Katolian forces caught the three together, they would have surely taken her. 

His foster daughter may be the strongest and fastest among her comrades, but she had always hesitated to use lethal force. If she had been outnumbered, her odds...

They would not kill a child. Any being with any sort of moral code would not kill a child without justification, and Rayla, who refuses to even swat a fly, is barely fifteen. No, they would take her alive, delivering her right into Viren's slimy hands. 

The conniving rat knows nothing of their relationship, but could easily recognize her as his ally. It makes sense that out of the two, he'd leave Runaan alive, being older and the assassins' leader.

Something Runaan feared more than death. If there was ever such a thing, the child he had practically raised and sworn to protect, in the hands of a monster like Viren would be it.

And even if she is safe, (He begs the gods above to please let her be safe, to let her return home to Ethari and the Silvergrove. She will bear the marks of failure, but at least Rayla will be alive.) Runaan wants nothing less than for his foster daughter's last memory of him to be their fight.

He hopes that someday, she will forgive him. 

What feels like eons pass (likely only hours, he can tell from the footsteps of the guards outside), and he sits there; shackled like a common thief, chained like a mutt, waiting for what he knows must be a terrible fate. Scenarios play over and over in his head, but still, the stoic assassin swallows his fear.

No matter what dreadful fortune lies in store for him, he will not let the demon see his trepidation. The villain will get nothing but sullen, mute defiance. 

Runaan awakens to the scraping of metal on the cell's rough, uneven floor. He opens his eyes, lifting his head to see a large object covered by a dark cloth. A mirror, possibly. 

Viren steps out from behind the mirror, not even sparing a glance at Runaan's prone form, and instead, turning to face the cloth-covered looking glass. 

"In a moment, I will remove this cover, and you will tell me what you know. Understood?" His tone of voice is at the very least civil, but if Runaan did not hate smiling as much as he does, he would be laughing. Come hell or high water, he will not fear whatever Viren can do with a simple mirror.

Once again, he turns his head to the side in silent dissent. Runaan, leader of the most elite team of Moonshadow assassins, does not deign to speak with a common, disgusting dark mage like him. 

The foul magician steps toward him, crouching down. His hand dives into his pocket. Runaan's curiosity is somewhat piqued, and he watches as Viren retrieves a small sack, holding it out. 

"I've brought something I hope you will find motivating." He jostles the drawstring back, letting what must be pieces of metal or coins jingle around. Does Viren think he can be bribed, especially with human currency? Preposterous. 

"You're more foolish than I thought," Runaan gnarls. "Don't you know only humans can be bribed?"

Viren snorts. It's a haughty, infuriating sound that makes the elf want to rip free of his shackles and deck the man. "Oh, this isn't a bribe." A devilish smile lifts the corners of his lips, tugging at the mage's ridiculous goatee. 

He pours several coins out, and they each hit the stone with a soft clunk. The maddening grin becomes even wider as Viren softly murmurs: "It's a threat." 

"Go on," The devil purrs. "Take a closer look." 

He does as Viren tells him, staring down at the coins until something unrecognizable claws at his throat. 

_Tiadrin. Lain. Elves he knew as a boy; departed from the Silvergrove and never to return._

"You're a monster." Runaan nearly spits, seething with barely disguised rage. 

"You're mistaken," Viren shakes his head maddeningly, still wearing that patronizing smirk of his. "I'm a pragmatist."

Instead of dignifying such a bald-faced lie with an answer, he turns his head to the side as Viren rolls his eyes. 

"I suppose you may need... some time to think over your decision." The shacked elf watches as Viren practically stalks out of the cell, swinging the door behind him shut.

Leaving Runaan, once again, to wait. To wait with the coins that imprison the terrified faces of his friends, of his kinsmen and women.  
It is almost as if they call out to him, screaming and begging for help he cannot provide. 

He has to hand it to the bastard. There is, in fact, something Runaan fears more than death. 

Even now, as he sits chained in a cell, surrounded by the metallic tombs of his fellow Moonshadow elves, Runaan takes solace in that the odds favour his sharp little blade being alive and unharmed. Thank the stars for small mercies.

Somewhere in between what he estimates to be the hourly changing of the guard, two boys, not much older than his own Rayla, dressed in the plain garb of palace servants, bring in a table covered with a dark cloth. They set a candle on top of it, lighting it with a match, and carefully pick up the coins littered across his cell's tiles. They say nothing to him, but he feels their fearful eyes scanning him for any sign of aggression. 

Runaan is not above scaring children, but his mind is elsewhere. He leaves them be.

He is left alone for another period until the door is pushed open and the face of the snake Viren is illuminated by the moonlight spilling through the dungeon's barred windows. 

The mage marches over to the mirror, sets down a bowl of black powder, and pulls off its purplish curtain with a flourish. 

"Enough brooding, elf. My patience wears thin. Tell me what you know about this relic or I will seal your fate." Viren hisses through gritted teeth. 

Runaan looks the mirror up and down. Each symbol, writing that screams _forbidden_ and _dangerous_ further deepens the pit of dread in his stomach. 

It looks harmless now, showing only his limp, chained, terrifying reflection. It will not be harmless for long.

He balks, swallowing a gasp. "You have succeeded," The assassin says, and he cannot help but notice how horrified his voice sounds, all vestiges of his earlier defiance having vanished. 

"Oh, have I?" 

"That mirror? You have found something worse than death." Runaan may be stubborn, but he is no liar. That mirror, that accursed artifact constitutes something a thousand times worse than death. Which is why he cannot betray any more information to the self-serving swine before him. 

"Then tell me," Viren hisses. "What is it?"

"I will _never_ help _you_." Runaan snarls. He knows what this means. He is not oblivious; he understands very well what Viren plans to do to him in the event of his noncompliance. 

He remembers the stricken faces of his allies. Their mouths; some twisted into panicked screams, some closed into firm, hard lines. 

The restrained elf pulls his head upward as Viren goes to retrieve his obstinate, ugly staff from its resting place by the door; giving the pig nothing but recalcitrant eyes and a scowl. He will not let Viren see his fear, even as a thousand thoughts of Ethari, of Rayla, of his friends, back home flood his mind, he will remain belligerent in the face of his own personal hell. 

Even as the bastard begins to chant unnatural, demonic words that feel like a stab wound to the chest, he holds his head high like the man of honour he is, the man of honour Ethari married.

Viren's eyes glow an awful violet, and Runaan's body feels as if it is burning like a bonfire on a midsummer night. Acid rushes through his veins, and the white-haired warrior hopes it will not burn away the gorgeous marks his love painted so carefully on his body. 

Runaan lets out one last, pained wail, as slowly, his pain gives way to oblivion, and his physical form is no more.

And somewhere back in the Silvergrove, a short-haired elf, whose hand cups a sinking heart lotus, does the same.

**Author's Note:**

> if you like my work, want to come cry with me about the dragon prince or just wanna shoot me a message, make sure to check out my tumblr: https://transrightstano.tumblr.com, where i do a lot of crying about the dragon prince. or just, yk, crying in general.
> 
> thank you for reading!


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